


judith

by deadlybride



Series: A Perfect Circle [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e02 Everybody Loves a Clown, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:13:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: June 4, 2006. Dean's dealing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Perfect Circle - _Judith_ , track four of _Mer de Noms_

_He did this:_  
_took all you had and_  
_left you this way._  
_Still you pray, never stray,_  
_never taste of the fruit,_  
_never thought to question why—_

 

Sam won't stop looking at Dean. The sun's beating down unending in the yard at Bobby's and it's humid, an awful thick-aired South Dakota day. The kind where breathing deep just makes Dean feel like he's drowning. He's leaning into the open hood of the Impala, sweat dripping off his nose onto the dusty battery tray, exposed where he's ripped open her guts, where he's been rummaging around for days trying to bring her back to life.

The grimy curtains in Bobby's windows twitch again, and Dean smears a greasy wrist over his forehead, stands up. Sam won't stop looking but he hasn't touched—not really, not in any way that counts, beyond the hard hands on Dean's waist, on his arm, forcing him upright and close so they could watch the doctors fail over an unmoving chest. Dean's still got the fading yellow remnant of a bruise on his wrist where Sam's hand had clamped down punishingly tight, forgotten as the crash cart got put away, as the nurse tried to lead them out of the room, back down the pale, empty hallway. Dean hadn't noticed the marks until he was sitting half-dressed on his hospital bed, trying to lace his boots with Sam mumbling to Bobby on the cell just outside the room. His wrist a dark angry red, and the gash on his forehead still tender, but deep inside, where it counted, the doctors said he was whole. A miracle.

There's a low screechy squeak—that hinge on Bobby's screen door, moaning for attention. Dean tosses the socket wrench into the toolbox, runs a hand over his hair. Bobby went into town half an hour ago. Supply run. Probably won't be back for at least an hour or so.

"Dean?"

Sammy, calling soft and concerned. There's a pit in Dean's stomach. He stares down into the broken-apart engine. Whatever miracle might've put him back together wasn't much of one. He licks his lips, salt and sweat, and looks up to meet Sam's eyes. What a sight—his hair a mess, as always, bruises a sad undercolor to his smooth tan, and those eyes. Always concerned, lately, always watching Dean like Dean's the one who needs looking after—but that's not what Dad ever said, was it.

"What, Sam," he says, finally.

 Sam bites the corner of his lip, brow knotted. Kicked, overgrown puppy. "Just wondered if—if you needed help with anything, I guess. If there's anything I can do."

Dean looks at him—those big loose hands, the soft eagerness to him that's unfamiliar, still, even after the past year of riding together. Not eager enough, though. Not for what Dean wants.

"Yeah," he says, and Sam straightens up at once, surprised not to be put off again. Dean tosses the rag off his shoulder and jerks his head back toward the labyrinth of car corpses, says, "Come on, I need something back here."

He goes first, sun beating down on the back of his neck, Sam's scuffing footsteps through the dirt following. He knows how to walk, for this, though he's never used it on Sam—but he makes his hips loose, anyway, makes his gait slow and easy. Drags his shirt-hem up to wipe the sweat on his face, and it'd be innocent except that he knows how much Sam loves his back—has laid there gasping into the pillow while Sam bit up the muscles by his spine, has balanced with his hands on the headboard to make a pretty arch so that Sam will groan and fuck him harder. Sure enough, there's a sharp hiss of breath through teeth, and his stomach lights up, just like that, and yeah, this is going to work. They round the corner of two stacked Explorers, smashed apart and waiting for someone to cannibalize them for parts, and Dean yanks the shirt off all the way, drops it to the dusty earth and grabs Sam in one motion, slams him up against the sidepanel.

"What—" Sam says, breathless, but Dean's already on his knees, crowded close with his hands on Sam's belt. "Wait—wait—" Sam says, hands grasping at Dean's too-short hair, at his neck, and Dean shoves up his stupid polo, presses a kiss against the low curve of his belly so that it shudders, makes his mouth open and soft, lips smearing against the warm skin.

"Oh—god, Dean." He flicks his eyes up and Sam's staring down at him, face open and shocked, and he flicks his tongue out against the faint trail of hair where Sam hasn't shaved in a while, sucks a little with his eyes locked on Sam's, and Sam's hands go tight, eager where they'd been protesting, and that's it. That's it. He hasn't lost this, too.

Dean gets his belt open, practiced and easy, pulls his fly so the buttons pop out in a quick line—stops mouthing at his stomach so he can pull back, so he can see as he shoves down soft plaid boxers, gets the half-hard swelling monster in his sweaty palm, pops the elastic waistband under his balls so they're pushed up, full and big and ready to blow because Sam hasn't touched him, not like this, not since—and Dean noses along the salt-skin-smell, pulls one of Sam's balls in and sucks, not as careful as he usually is with this, but above him there's the slam of Sammy dropping his head back onto the sidepanel, of him breathing in hard and desperate, and so it's okay. He lets it drop out of his mouth and licks his lips, up close so his tongue hits skin, and then drags his mouth open up the side of the shaft, up and up until he can lick at the head, tender-tease into big broad laps against the crown and then Sam's ready, straining, red and huge in his hand, and Dean sucks it down, down to where he's holding the base steady, his other hand flat against Sam's chest, keeping him in place.

God, Sammy's bigger than he remembers—last time he did this Sam was eighteen, furious about something (big surprise!), and Dean had cornered him in that bathroom against the closed door and sucked him from soft to hard to soft again, Sam's hands in his hair first yanking and then gentle, forgetting anger in how good Dean was, in how good he could be. Dean's still good—better, now, with even more years of practice—but Sammy went and grew, at college, grew in ways Dean didn't get to see, because he wasn't where he should be. Feels different, in his mouth—Sam's fucked him, sure, a half-dozen times since they've been riding together again, but like this he really has to open himself up, mouth straining at the corners to let him in. He kneels up higher, screws his lips down tight, and Sam bucks, a little, hits the back of his throat easy and Dean swallows around the gag. Big hands on his head, a soft thumb over his cheekbone—and when did he close his eyes? He swallows again, moves his hands so that he's holding Sam's hips, fingers digging into the denim and hauling him in, close, tight and thick and choking, his nose pressed up to trimmed hair. "Oh my god," Sam's saying, over his head, "oh my god, you—Dean, Dean—" and finally Dean has to pull off, chest heaving, lips sloppy with spit. He lets the head pop his lips open, sucks a tease over the sensitive crown to savor that salt-bitter flavor, and then he scrapes his teeth over the underside—not too hard, but enough to make Sam's hips jerk.

"Come on," Dean mumbles. His voice is already threateningly rough—Sam's big enough that he's going to be aching, throat sore, long after they're done here, after he goes back to the fucking car, through an awkward dinner and while he's laying there on the floor while Sam sleeps on the couch, staring up at the dark ceiling, working his aching jaw and thinking _how could you, how could you do this, all I've ever done is for this, and now—_

"Dean," Sam says, soft, and Dean looks up, holds Sam's eyes and licks him root to tip, showy in a way he's never been, not with Sam. Sam's frown disappears and his hands tighten, again, on the back of Dean's neck, on his bare shoulder, holding him close, keeping him right where Sam wants him, so Dean sucks him down again, shoves past where he should gag and gets Sam deep, deep enough that Sam's groaning, knees spreading as he jerks into where Dean's not bothering to hold him down—deep enough that if Sam notices Dean's wet eyes, after, there's nothing he could blame it on but this.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/155966020499/judith)


End file.
